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Summary
'Mistletoe,’ he giggles again, infinitely anxious. His arm trembles where he’s holding the plant up, imperceptible if Minho weren’t staring at him. ‘You know the tradition, hyungie.’
‘Jisung-ah,’ he says lowly, swallowing a whimper. ‘I can’t kiss you.’
Jisung’s smile drops, and it takes Minho’s blood with it.
Or: Minho and Jisung have been sleeping together since what feels like forever. They've never kissed.
But- it's Christmas. And they have mistletoe. And they are idiots.
